“Who are you calling?” Nick asked.
“My babysitter.”
“Your wife is home with your step kids. You don’t have a babysitter tonight.”
“I mean the guy who babysits me.”
Few men committed treason and returned home, but after stealing a Trident missile submarine, Jake had worked enough pro-American submarine missions with Pierre Renard to earn his way back to a policed life in the United States.
For the first time since the CIA had handed him off to the FBI to monitor his life of parole mixed with witness protection, Jake appreciated having a federal agent at his disposal.
His latest FBI-parole officer had started his assignment three months ago and sounded groggy as he answered the phone.
“It’s late, Jake,” the FBI agent said. “What’s wrong?”
“I screwed up.”
“How bad?”
“I got into a bar fight,” Jake said. “I hurt someone bad. I may have killed him.”
“You know that’s stupid, but I’ll spare you the lecture on drinking and fighting.”
“That sounded like a lecture,” Jake said.
“Focus. What bar was it?”
Jake gave him the name and the city.
“I’ll monitor police and first responder traffic. Do you know who you hurt?”
“He drew a fucking knife on me!”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I have no idea who he was. Damn it, I’m a stupid shit. I went out looking for this.”
“Calm down. How many witnesses saw you?”
“Shit, half the bar plus the guy’s posse. A good two dozen people at least.”
“Do you think anyone saw your car?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said. “How the hell should I know? Maybe not. We were parked far away.”
“I’ll get my hands on the police report. You might get lucky. It depends who saw what, who your victim is, and how bad you hurt him. It also helps if someone will confirm that he drew the knife.”
“Maybe,” Jake said. “But what if this blows up?”
“There’s a contingency plan for you getting into legal trouble. The FBI would claim you as our subject of interest for some multi-state crime spree, take over the case, and haul you across the country to start your life over. But you’re getting ahead of yourself. You sound drunk. You need to sleep it off.”
“Can I just go home?” Jake asked.
“Yeah. Go ahead. But keep your phone on. I’ll call you if local authorities happen to connect the dots to you tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Jake hung up and sank into his seat, but his brief relief evaporated as a sick guilt rose within him.
After Nick drove him to his home in suburban Detroit, Jake collapsed onto the couch in his office. Inebriation dragged him into a shallow and fitful sleep, and he awoke in the middle of the night. His heart raced, pumping alcohol’s toxins and self-loathing through his veins.
Anxious curiosity compelled him to roust his computer to life and log in to his secure communication page. As he hoped and feared, his FBI babysitter had left him a message.
The news hit hard. He had spent a decade sending countless men to their graves in naval exchanges and even with small arms, but he had never beaten a man to death — until now.
Dead on arrival due to closed head trauma.
The report mentioned that his victim was a mid-ranking member of a gang under surveillance for drug trafficking and that his death would likely be ruled a hit by a rival gang.
Jake believed he would escape legal persecution, but bile rose within him. He closed the message but noticed another unread note.
He opened it and saw the request from Pierre Renard to join him on a new assignment.
Jake had attempted to refuse Renard on prior assignments. He had even left assignments in mid-execution. But after letting his rage push him across a line, he wanted to run away.
He digested the note’s brief contents, and he ruminated over the concept of commanding Renard’s submarine in support of Argentina’s strategic interests. His tired, shaken, and poisoned mind struggled to imagine the purpose and the details, and he stopped trying.
He would be patient and call Renard later in the morning to unravel the mystery. He expected to learn of a mission, a client, and a strategy to establish national boundaries. Danger would come with the territory, but his present state of mind left him uncaring.
Flying to the bottom of the world to command a submarine for any reason, either imaginable or beyond speculation, offered him the escape he needed.
CHAPTER 3
Breaking a European sex slave trafficking operation had earned Olivia McDonald her street credibility in the CIA, but it had also caused her a lifetime of antiretroviral drugs to combat HIV and countless psychological therapy sessions recovering from her near-death raping.
She wanted more than street credibility.
Given her chance to rise higher, she had seduced Jake Slate while he tried to hide in France, and she had accomplished her ultimate mission of using him to gather intelligence on Pierre Renard. After meeting the adventurous duo, Olivia’s life had become a multi-year roller coaster of missions protecting her country.
As a trained psychologist entering her mid-thirties, she enjoyed recent quiet years of analyst work — free of interference from Jake and Renard. The momentum of her high-profile field work, combined with favor earned by a high-ranking mentor, had placed her on a fast track to the organization’s upper echelons. Rumors spread that she would someday become the Director of National Intelligence — as long as she found the right assignments to stay relevant.
When Pierre Renard called her, memories of danger had caused trepidation, but ambition had compelled her to answer. After quick pleasantries, she had agreed to meet him. Background jet noise during the conversation had revealed that he was en route to Virginia, as if he knew she couldn’t refuse him.
Having indulged in an extra bottle of wine the prior evening, Olivia cursed the overhead lighting and the toxins in her body. The blood running through her temples throbbed against the rims of her sunglasses.
She picked Legal Sea Foods in McLean’s Tysons Corner II mall for its crowd and background noise. Two tables away, a pair of CIA agents masqueraded as husband and wife and watched for suspicious eavesdroppers. Olivia sat close to Renard, huddled like a lover, to further conceal their discussion from would-be listeners.
“Sunglasses indoors?” he asked.
“Rough night,” she said. “Forget about it. Let’s get down to business.”
“After we order,” Renard said. “Come now, let’s at least enjoy the meal and share news. I haven’t seen you in years.”
Olivia appreciated the Frenchman’s natural charisma and ability to place her at ease.
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “How’s Marie and the kids?”
“Angry with me, as usual,” he said. “She expects me to retire, but I cannot help but run around the globe trying to reshape it. Jacques and Sylvie are well, but I must admit that I see too little of them. Perhaps I will retire after this next endeavor so that I can watch my children grow.”
“I’ll go out on a limb and guess that you said that before your last job in Taiwan.”
“I’m sure I did, but I cannot confirm that. I probably suffer from selective memory.”
A waitress brought bread and took Renard’s order for shrimp cocktail appetizers.
“How about you?” Renard asked. “I’m sorry that I don’t see a wedding ring. You had met a man during our operation with the hijacked Israeli submarine. Did that relationship fall short of meeting your needs?”
“I put my career first. I just didn’t have time for love and let him get away.”
“You are still young, talented, and beautiful. I’m sure you will find a partner when you are ready.”